CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘I’m going to ring Newcastle police Juvenile Liaison Bureau to cancel their records of the 17-year-old Frank Underwood. I’m going to confirm that he has not run away with 15-year-old Margaret Ellison (who is missing from that area) and I’m going to ring Mrs Underwood to say that her son is safe and that his private affairs are nothing to do with the police.’

  ‘You won’t say where we are, will you? Or that you’ve found us?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I promise.’

  We departed on good terms, the couple chuckling at their curious experience, and I returned to Ashfordly to explain this clanger to Sergeant Bairstow. But he took it in good part and said he would cancel the searches going on elsewhere.

  He would endorse the record, ‘Underwood traced with adult partner. No offences revealed.’ That would prevent daft questions from higher authority.

  When I returned home, my wife and I laughed at the development, and then the telephone rang. It was Mrs Underwood.

  ‘I’m ringing to see if you have found my son yet,’ she said the line still crackling and faint.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, without going into details. ‘I gave him your message and he thanked me.’

  ‘Well, if you see him again, Officer, tell him I’m not feeling very well. Tell him I’ve had another of my dizzy turns and I think he should come home — without that hussy of course.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll do that, Mrs Underwood,’ I said.

  To clear myself, I rang Mr and Mrs Jackson, the owners of Spout House Farm at Gelderslack, to ask them to pass on the ‘sickness’ message to Mr Underwood.

  ‘Underwood?’ asked Helen Jackson. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Rhea, there’s no one called Underwood here. Our only guests at the moment are two pensioners, a Mr and Mrs Smith from Newcastle-on-Tyne.’

  * * *

  A story of comparable mother-love involved Mrs Lucy Haines of Crag Top Farm, Briggsby. A great deal younger than Lavinia Underwood (and much younger even than Lavinia’s son, Frank), she was the widow of Michael Haines. He was a farmer who had died in his early forties. His sudden and early departure from this life meant that Lucy was left with the farm to run and five sturdy sons to rear. In both challenges, she succeeded admirably, for the farm was well run and profitable, while her sons had all responded to their new responsibilities by working hard on the farm before launching themselves into fresh careers.

  As Lucy nudged towards her middle fifties, the eldest four sons had all left home. After their youthful taste of the tough work on the farm, they had decided on easier careers.

  Andrew had joined the army, Simon had found work in London, first as a motor mechanic and then as a taxi-driver, Paul was doing well as a quantity surveyor with a building company in the Midlands, while John had opened an electrical goods shop in York. Only Stephen, the youngest, was still at home. Now in his middle twenties, he worked alongside his mother, the pair of them slogging from dawn till dusk to keep the farm viable. It was a busy, non-stop life of hard work, for they had a large dairy herd, pigs, sheep and poultry, as well as many acres of arable land which produced barley, wheat and potatoes. That was what Michael Haines had established before his death — he’d worked so hard to create a profitable farm which he could pass to his sons.

  The farm occupied a splendid site. Its buildings formed a kind of defensive cluster around the sturdy, stone-built farm house. In some ways, it was like a castle, because the foldyard was akin to a courtyard, with the buildings arranged around it to form a protection against the bitter weather which could blow across that hilltop. The house was like the keep, while the barns and outbuildings formed the battlements. The entire group of buildings stood on the summit of a limestone crag with a winding, unmade road leading down to the dale below. The fields were spread across the lofty plain, and some of the slopes were covered with deciduous trees. I always enjoyed the ride back from Crag Top, if only for the long views one could obtain from the descent.

  In his endeavours to carve a working farm from that lonely site, Michael Haines had had some help — an aged farmworker called Ralph had supported him for the whole of his (Michael’s) life and most of Ralph’s. Ralph had started work here when he was fifteen and had worked for Michael Haines’ father. Even though the widowed Lucy was never financially well-off, she would never consider getting rid of Ralph. He was part of the establishment and had, over the years, been largely responsible for creating a working farm around this lofty house. Following Michael’s death, however, the bulk of the work fell upon the broad shoulders of Lucy and Stephen, because Ralph was, quite simply, too old to undertake the heavier tasks. The years of toil had taken their toll, and he should really have retired by now. But he did not leave — he stayed on to help and would probably stay there until he dropped dead. Unmarried, he knew no other life and lived in a rented cottage in the village.

  Ralph’s work was his life — and so it was with Lucy and her son. Neither she nor Stephen went anywhere for social outings or holiday visits — they had never been to any of the other sons’ homes, for they never had the time or the money; they never took a day off unless it was to visit a local mart or perhaps the Great Yorkshire Show at Harrogate. For them, their farm was their entire life, even if it was a never-ending routine of near drudgery. Lucy saw no alternative; born of moorland farming stock, her parents had also lived this kind of life.

  In spite of living in the middle 1960s, Stephen had found himself emulating his mother’s early years. It seemed he was destined to follow his ancestors into a life of hard work and little relaxation. I don’t think he’d had a girlfriend since leaving school, and I never saw him pop into the local pub for a drink or join the other lads into the cricket or football teams. He was almost a recluse at the grand old age of twenty-five. The only time I noticed him around the village was when he came down to the garage to purchase spares for the tractor. He spent hours working on the tractor, fixing defects, polishing it, mending broken bits and devising modifications of his own. There were few local lads more keen and knowledgeable about tractors.

  I did, of course, see both mother and son during my regular visits to the farm. I had to visit the premises at least once a quarter to check the stock register, and there were other occasions of duty, such as renewal of their firearms and shotgun certificates, or warnings if outbreaks of notifiable diseases of animals were suspected within the county. During my visits, I grew to like Lucy. She was a stocky woman scarcely more than five feet in height and slightly overweight in spite of her hard work. She had a round, ruddy face, very dark and pretty eyes, good white teeth and jet-black hair which hinted at Continental or gypsy ancestry, though I don’t think she had any foreign blood in her veins, for many moorland girls had these dark good looks.

  Her face was weathered and tanned and she usually wore her hair tied back in a bun. Her attire about the farm was generally a heavy frock worn beneath a well-used pinny, with an old cardigan about her shoulders in winter, and black Wellingtons on her feet all the year. I had never seen her dressed in smart clothes — even when she visited Ashfordly market on a Friday for her fruit and groceries, she wore that old cardigan and her wellies. But, I often thought, she was a good-looking woman who, with a little care and thought about her appearance, could have attracted a fine man — as indeed she once had.

  The villagers, myself included, often wondered why she did not sell the farm to provide herself with an income from the capital it would generate. Oddly enough, she gave me a clue during a visit one September.

  I called one misty morning, and Lucy produced a mug of coffee and a scone, asking me to join her, Stephen and old Ralph at the kitchen table. She brushed aside some mountaineering books which were on the table, and then Stephen came in and, blushing slightly, removed them to the sideboard. I wondered if he was taking up a new hobby, for these were colourful books full of photographs and descriptive passages, but I did not embarrass him by asking.

  ‘You look tired,’ I said to Lucy as we settled down for a chat over th
e coffee. Stephen had left us, taking his coffee and Ralph’s outside, saying there was work to be done in the foldyard.

  ‘He’s very shy,’ she said, as if in apology for Stephen’s awkwardness in company.

  ‘I know the feeling!’ I smiled, knowing that some country lads were painfully shy in company of any kind, especially that of girls. ‘But how about you? Are you working too hard?’

  ‘Mebbe I am.’ She regarded me with a friendly look. ‘It makes me realize I’m getting older, Mr Rhea. I’m past fifty, you know.’

  ‘Well you don’t look it.’ I hoped I was not being patronizing by merely stating the obvious. ‘But you can’t go on for ever. You ought to sell up and invest the money, and enjoy the result of all your hard work.’

  ‘There’s many times I’ve thought of doing that.’ I thought I detected a note of yearning in her voice. ‘But Michael wouldn’t have wanted it. He was building up this farm for the lads — that’s all he worked for.’

  ‘But they’ve left the farm.’ I wondered if I was being too forward in reminding her of this, but I felt I could be honest.

  ‘Aye,’ she sighed. ‘That’s summat Michael never foresaw. He saw all his sons taking over, sharing the work and expanding the farm. He trained them for that — and then he died. They stuck it for a while, but they’d had enough of long hours and hard work with no money to spend. They’ve all gone, except our Stephen. Mind, if I go, the farm’ll be theirs, to share. They’re all part-owners, even if I do all the work.’

  ‘And what about Stephen?’ I asked. ‘Will he stay?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she sighed. ‘What I would like, Mr Rhea, is for him to find a good, hard-working and honest lass, one who’s been bred on the moors, one who’ll take to this kind of life. Then he’d stay, he’d produce some bairns, and the farm could be kept in the family just as Michael wanted, and then handed down. The others say they don’t want it; they’ve said I should sell up, and they’ll let me have their shares till I die. But, well, there’s Stephen. He needs the work, he’d not find anything else, you know . . .’

  As we chatted, I could see that she was actually working for Stephen’s benefit but I also knew there was no guarantee he would stay to farm this lonely, hilltop site. She ought to be thinking of herself now, she should retire and enjoy her investment, for the farm would bring a high sum on the open market.

  As our conversation continued and I accepted her second mug of coffee, she smiled and asked me a favour.

  ‘I’d like you to do something for me, Mr Rhea.’ Those dark eyes scanned my face. ‘A favour, if you will.’

  ‘I hope I can.’ I was cautious, wondering what was to come.

  ‘You remember when I towed you out of that ditch last winter?’ she reminded me.

  I remembered the incident. In my police van, I had skidded into a ditch on the outskirts of Aidensfield, and she had halted with the tractor. She’d towed me out; there was no damage to the police van and I had never reported it to anyone. But at the time I’d said, ‘Thanks, Mrs Haines, if ever you need a favour, well, you know where to come.’ And now she was calling in that favour.

  ‘I remember,’ I said. ‘And I’m always grateful.’

  ‘Well, now I’m asking a favour in return.’

  I wondered what was coming.

  ‘It’s our Stephen,’ she said quietly. ‘He never goes out, Mr Rhea, he never goes where he’s likely to meet a girl. I wish he’d go to the pub or join something but he spends all day working and won’t go out. He thinks of nowt else but tractors, and at night he’ll sit in to watch television or read.’

  ‘So how can I help?’ I wondered.

  ‘Well, you’re out and about all the time, meeting people. I wondered if you knew of any suitable lasses, farm lasses like me, who’d make him a friend. He needs a friend, Mr Rhea, a girlfriend. I thought, well, that if you did know of anybody that might suit him, you’d let me know.’

  ‘I will,’ I said. ‘Just now, I can’t think of anyone, but if I do, I’ll get in touch.’

  ‘You won’t forget?’ I realized she was very serious about this.

  ‘No, I won’t forget,’ I said, taking my leave.

  I never regarded myself as a matchmaker, and furthermore. I knew the dangers that could result from such arrangements, but I did not forget her earnest plea. As I motored around the moors, calling at farms and remote houses, I often recalled Lucy’s words, but all the desirable young ladies in those areas were ‘spoken for’, as we termed it. I never saw anyone I thought would tolerate the harsh life of Crag Top Farm or be strong enough to cope with Stephen’s painful shyness.

  But then, some eighteen months after that chat with Lucy, I visited Marshlands Hall at Gelderslack at the request of the occupants, a Mr and Mrs Slater. They had come to this old manor house and had turned it into fine private hotel; now, to take advantage of the changes in the licensing laws, they wanted to apply for a table licence which would permit them to sell intoxicants to non-residents who took meals in their dining-room. I went along to discuss this with them, armed with my knowledge of the liquor licensing laws.

  Bernard and Olive Slater were practical folks who saw the potential in their idea. As I chattered to them, I noticed a young woman working in the grounds. She was hammering some fence posts into the earth with a huge mallet. The Slaters noticed my interest.

  ‘That’s Sylvia,’ said Olive Slater. ‘Our daughter. She’s an outdoor type if ever there was one.’

  ‘Does she work here?’ I asked out of interest.

  ‘Sort of,’ said her father. ‘She spends her time rushing all over the world. Her great-aunt — my aunt Felicity — left her some money, so she is almost independent of us. But she uses this house as her base and earns her keep when she’s here by working, sometimes outside like she is now, and sometimes by waiting at table or even decorating. She’s a real tomboy and a useful handywoman.’

  ‘She’s just come back from a climbing expedition in the Alps,’ her mother said. ‘And before that, she sailed every lake in the British Isles, and she’s trekked to the source of every Yorkshire river . . .’

  ‘She sounds a restless sort of lass!’ I laughed.

  ‘She ought to be settling down,’ her father joked. ‘She’s nearly thirty now, and there’s no sign of a man in her life. If you know of any young men who could meet her challenge, I’d be grateful — she’s always too busy rushing off to meet any local lads.’

  At this, I recalled Lucy’s plea about her Stephen. Here were two young people, each isolated in their own way, with no hope of meeting one another, and for a fleeting moment I wondered if they had anything in common. As I watched the powerful Sylvia hammering in those fence posts, I thought she might be ideal for Stephen. Where else would a farmer find a girl capable of doing a man’s work?

  ‘I might know just the lad,’ I said, and told them about Stephen Haines.

  ‘We think she’d do well with a place of her own,’ said Olive Slater. ‘She needs to settle down and extend some of her energy making it a success — she’s got nothing at the moment, you see, except a bit of cash which won’t last for ever. She can’t go on for ever rushing around the world on her own. This isn’t our own premises, we rent it, so we can’t pass it on.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m sure the Haines could use some help from time to time. Whether she and Stephen hit it off remains to be seen.’

  ‘Tell Mrs Haines to give us a call if she does need help about the farm,’ invited Bernard Slater, ‘and I know our Sylvia will welcome the change — and the bit of cash. If a romance blossoms, well, that’s a bonus. We’d rather she became independent instead of using us as a base and, let’s face it, a convenience. We do have a permanent staff, and we can’t pay any of them off every time our Sylvia decides to come home. We’d never get them back when she left.’

  ‘So something away from here would be an asset?’ I said.

  ‘Ideal,’ said Bernard Slater. ‘I think she could do with some wor
k away from here.’

  It was another three months before I revisited Crag Top Farm, and I found Lucy with her arm in plaster. She had fallen off the roof of an outbuilding while replacing some loose tiles and had broken her wrist.

  ‘How are you coping?’ I asked. I knew that winter is a quiet time on the farm, but I also knew that much does require attention in winter, especially maintenance work. With one person incapacitated, life would not be easy.

  ‘I’ll be honest. I’m not coping,’ she said. ‘Our Stephen is doing his best, but the cattle take most of his time, and I’m tied to the house now. There’s fencing to do, ditching and so on . . . and there’s no workers available just now. They won’t work for farm wages, and poor old Ralph’s getting too slow.’

  It was then that I recalled Sylvia Slater and, remembering my earlier conversation with Lucy, I said, ‘I know just the person!’

  I explained that Sylvia was older than Stephen by a year or two, but that she seemed a capable lass so far as outdoor work was concerned. She might be willing to come along if she wasn’t canoeing down the Amazon, hiking through the Grand Canyon or rebuilding ruined castles. Lucy listened intently and smiled.

  ‘She might be just the sort to jerk our Stephen out of his shyness.’

  I gave her the number of Marshlands Hall Hotel before I left.

  As I was on holiday at the time of the next quarterly visit to the farm, the stock registers were inspected by a colleague, and so there was a gap of six months before I returned to Crag Top Farm. By then it was summer, and the countryside was looking its best. The hedgerows were in full leaf, buttercups covered the floor of the dale with their golden blooms, and forget-me-nots decorated the woods around Crag Top.

  The farm was smart and tidy as I knocked on the kitchen door. It was opened by Stephen, who invited me in as his mother would have. He and old Ralph were having their ’lowance, as the mid-morning break is called, and both were sitting at the scrubbed wooden kitchen table. Blushing slightly, Stephen invited me to join them. He had made some coffee in a pan, and there was a fruitcake on the table. I smiled and accepted.